It is his gentle, high-bred manner and not his azure coat which makes the bluebird.—Torrey.
How can we fail to regard its azure except as a fragment from the blue of the summer noonday arch?—Silloway.
The bluebird always bears the national colors—red, white, and blue—and in its habits is a model of civilized bird-life.—Dr. Cooper.
At the first flash of vernal sun among the bare boughs of his old home he hies northward to greet it with his song, and seems, unlike the oriole, to help nature make the spring.—Baskett.
As he sits on a branch lifting his wings there is an elusive charm about his sad, quivering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly. Ignoring our presence, he seems preoccupied with unfathomable thoughts of field and sky.—Merriam.
And yonder bluebird, with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back, did he come down out of heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we pleased, spring had come?—Burroughs.
He is "true blue," which is as rare a color among birds as it is among flowers. He is the banner-bearer of bird-land also, and loyally floats the tricolor from our trees and telegraph wires; for, besides being blue, is he not also red and white?—Coues.
THE FIRST BLUEBIRD.
Jest rain and snow! and rain again!